


VapoRub

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jemma excels at preparation, Sci-Ops Era, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz awoke feeling like a cold pile of sheep dung. His head and weather-arm throbbed in time with his heart and his eyes swam as he sat up in bed. His PJs were soaked and he stank of illness. His throat burned, and as he doubled over with a wet coughing fit, he realized why. Good thing Jemma was there to take care of him, medicating him, monitoring him, and forcing water or juice upon him at half hour intervals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	VapoRub

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notapepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapepper/gifts).



Simmons woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of body-wracking coughs. Fitz. She padded down the hallway and eased open Fitz’ door to check on him.

Sure enough, Fitz was tossing and turning in a restless sleep. But thankfully he _was_ still asleep. Even from the doorway, lit only by the hall light, Jemma could tell Fitz was flushed with fever – his poor body’s attempting to fight off the viral invaders. She should have known this was going to happen.

Fitz had been caught in an October rainstorm without an umbrella (as per usual) and had turned up at the apartment looking like a sodden Wheaten Terrier – his wet mop of hair cascading over his blue eyes. Between the soaking and the stress of his new project, his immune system had clearly been suppressed. Poor baby. He hated being ill and was a truly trying patient.

Jemma eased the door closed behind her and hurried back to her room to get dressed. It would be best to pop over to the 24-hour pharmacy just down the way _now_ , while he was fitfully sleeping, than later when he was begging her to just chop his head off and put him in a jar.

She grabbed her purse and woolen coat on her way out the door and donned them in the elevator. She bid good night to the doorman – a jovial fellow of maybe 70 – and headed to the pharmacy.

She browsed the cold and cough aisle, filling her basket with cough drops – Fitz liked honey-lemon and she liked cherry, and she was bound to catch this cold too – VapoRub, Mucinex, Robitussin, Afrin, and real Sudafed from behind the counter. Fitz’s colds settled in his lungs, hers mostly stayed in the nose.

While she was out, she also picked up orange juice, ginger ale, and canned beans for Fitz’s comfort food of beans-on-toast.

She returned home – nodding at the doorman – and put away her take. She emailed in sick, reminding the lab tech to check on the new strain of mice before falling asleep with a warm glow of preparation and providing for her best friend in her chest.

* * *

Fitz awoke feeling like a cold pile of sheep dung. His head and his weather-arm throbbed in time with his heart and his eyes swam as he sat up in bed. His PJs were soaked and he stank of illness. His throat burned, and as he doubled over with a wet coughing fit, he realized why. In addition to his head and throat, pretty much his whole body ached. His neck hurt and the lymph nodes under his armpits. His knees and one wrist ached.

After he caught his breath post-coughing fit, he rolled over and grabbed his mobile from his bedside table. He just sat, letting the world stop spinning, before calling in sick.

Once that unpleasant task was completed, he debated getting up for breakfast or staying abed forever, but his bladder made his decision for him. Once he reached a vertical position, it was fairly easy to shuffle to the bathroom to take care of the necessities.

Jemma was waiting for him when he exited the bathroom, a tray of oatmeal, tea, water, orange juice and small pharmacy in her hands.

Fitz settled back in bed and Jemma forced him to eat the oatmeal before giving him the drugs she deemed appropriate for his symptoms – Tylenol for the low-grade fever and aches and Mucinex to help him expel the viral-laded phlegm. The orange juice burned at his raw throat on the way down – a fact he complained bitterly about. Jemma smiled tightly and demanded he finish the whole glass – doctor’s orders. This wrung a small snort out of Fitz. They both knew she wasn’t that kind of doctor, but the sugar and vitamin C wouldn’t hurt – except literally. Fitz finished the juice just in time before another wave of body-wracking coughs.

Jemma patted his back, encouraging him to expel the invaders into his wad of Kleenex and handed him a glass of cool water when he stopped to breathe.

“Wanna watch The Robots of Death?” Jemma asked, naming his favorite Doctor Who episode despite her dislike of the corny 1970’s special effects. Jemma was a sweetheart.

Fitz nodded and sipped his water as she set up the DVD. They watched Doctor Who for two hours, pausing for Fitz’ coughing fits. The Doctor wasn’t enough to fully distract Fitz from his suffering, but he appreciated Jemma’s companionship. When he was sick as a child Mum couldn’t take a day off work to care for him. It was just them, and they only just scraped by as it was. It was nice to have someone to complain to, to have someone to force water or juice or ginger ale upon him at half hour intervals.

After they finished The Robots of Death, Simmons fixed them a quick lunch of beans-on-toast – with more orange juice – and dictated a nap.

Fitz grumped at the demand, but understood. He was tired, sort of, fever dreams were never very restful but he tried to acquiesce. After a half hour he gave up, calling for Jemma, his coughing was too incessant. Jemma stroked his hair – some how making the action loving, not condescending – and suggested some VapoRub. Fitz nodded while trying not to choke on a cough drop.

He pulled off his sweat-stained sleep shirt while Jemma fetched the cream.

* * *

When Jemma returned with the VapoRub, Fitz was flushed from the minor exertions of disrobing. This cold was hitting him hard; hopefully it would be over soon. She spooned a generous dab of the aromatic and analgesic cream into her hand and rubbed it over his lightly furred chest.

Fitz did not have the classical muscle definition of Michelangelo’s David, nor was he soft and flabby either. He was Fitz. He was, however, quite warm to the touch. The thermometer had read only 37.6 degrees right before lunch, but he felt scorching beneath her hands – it always surprised her how exquisite the human body was – both the fever response and how finely tuned the nociceptors were.

As Jemma mused about power and grace of the innate immune response, Fitz soothed beneath her ministrations, as did his coughs. By the time Fitz’s fine golden hair was matted to his chest with the menthol-y cream, he had fallen asleep. Jemma kissed him on the forehead in a maternal fashion, well-resigned to catching this cold. Fitz caught maybe half of his coughs with his Kleenex, peppering the room with aerosolized mucus and viral particles. It was okay; she was prepared.

Jemma headed to the kitchen scrub the cream off her hands and begin making a semi-homemade chicken and rice soup – no one had time to make chicken stock these days, even though it was better.


End file.
